Rounds? Dorms? Aren't they lovely? Institutionalized germ petri dishes of adolescent confinement (why am I still here).
Ok, so here's the fat on the skinny: rounds are done at 6 p.m., 9 p.m., midnight on weekdays and on weekends and additional round at 2 am. The weekend counts as Friday into Saturday and Saturday into Sunday rounds, and well it's my first one.
A junior, bright eyed, innocent and completely devoid of the sarcasm and acerbic wit needed to survive man-handing the 400+ 18 year old residents. Not to mention putting up with the RAs and the provisions that indulge their station.
*Aside: these provisions/indulgences are material and immaterial. You would not believe what is internally endorsed.
I was paired with a 2nd year RA to learn the ropes. Good thing, because honestly I was so nervous I was anticipating a violent backdoor gift from my digestive tract. Thhbbbt!
"Okay so this is how we do rounds. You have to check every part of the building. Especially the places where shady shit could happen." Shady shit? Little me was best friends with my shoe collection. What kind of shady shit could happen in THIS bumble town? Cow tipping? Wow me here.
Oh, did I mention we also have to enter the boy's bathrooms...at this point I'm a slender 5'4" waifish girl with a very thin voice that errs on the side of squeaky.
"So first you listen to see if anyone's in there if the door's closed. If the door's open, then you check under the stalls for backwards feet," the veteran advised.
"Um, why would anyone be on the floor in the bathroom? That's kinda disgusting." Make note my dear friend, this 20 year old did not drink underage. Or do that illicit party thing. Just right over the head. SWOOSH! Rather unsavory. (And what would mummy think?)
"Hahaha, they'd be vomiting...like alcohol. Or like food poisoning?"
"Bad shellfish?" I quipped. I laughed. I tend to laugh at my own jokes to soften the blow if no one else gets my intellectual snarky ego trip. I'm like a female 20 year old Woody Allen minus an attraction to my adopted children.
"*Ahem* something like that," her confusion was audible. "Moving on then. So you check for vomit or blood and if it's wet and not yours, don't touch it." Wet, don't touch. Noted. "And if there is someone in there, of if you can't tell you yell 'Anyone in here, RA entering." Sometimes you get a faint 'DAHUR sumbody in hur.'
And then you run like hell because from the doorway it smells like weak PineSol trying to mask the smell of what I'm sure is poop residue from the Triassic period, AXE, smelly feet and aftershave.
Then you go through every hallway, picking up trash, (ahem, making sure you make the residents do it), checking for fire/safety codes, minding outdated posters and looking out for Shady Shit.
Then you do it 3 more times that night, four nights a month.
Hey, the pay is great right? Service...resume builder? Something like that.
